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The Worst Part

The worst part
Is not lying awake at night
Too tired to cry

The worst part
Is not seeing other people
Do so much better than me
With just a stroke of luck

The worst part
Is not sacrificing
Things I love
To impress you
To no avail

The worst part
Is not
Wanting something I’ll never get

You see, I’m used to all this
The worst part
Is worrying about you

I’m crazy

The stroke of midnight

Sitting here
The stroke of midnight
Calls upon my deepest fear
One minute of silence
I give homage
To every wasted tear

Because

I am the compost
Of age and years
My waste of time is my life revered

At midnight
Is a new year
Out of this compost
A chance for happiness
Will appear

A Game in the Vestry

Cold, cold, cold the snow outside the country church.
The quiet park, in summer filled with children's happy cries
And singing birds and mothers, babes in arms, is silent now.
Snow falls gently on the leaves and on the statue in the lake.

But in the vestry all is not so peaceful, as dear Father Reilly
Gropes his Christian way under the young girl's clothes,
Not minding her screams of terror at his clawing fingers;
"For the love of Jesus, but that feels great," he moans.

Eye Contact

She looked into
my eye

held it longer
for a while
more than three seconds
not done
unless for nightly fun
but none was done

so keep away from strangers' eye
many em vie
why feel shy

hold on for a while
in lovedly's style

The Last Days

A blood-stained key to life awaits
for those with the guts to grasp it
And to feel its heavy silver blade,
cool against the victim's waiting throat.

The doom-dark forest threatens me
with ruby eyes of demon creatures,
Amidst the chattering calls of devils
waiting for unwise, unwary travellers.

O let me drink from fate's heady moon-tree
that cold death-inducing brew of bergamot;
O let me wallow in the gut-wrenching horror
of my own long-drawn-out death agonies.

The Last Days

A blood-stained key to life awaits
for those with the guts to grasp it
And to feel its heavy silver blade,
cool against the victim's waiting throat.

The doom-dark forest threatens me
with ruby eyes of demon creatures,
Amidst the chattering calls of devils
waiting for unwise, unwary travellers.

O let me drink from fate's heady moon-tree
that cold death-inducing brew of bergamot;
O let me wallow in the gut-wrenching horror
of my own long-drawn-out death agonies.

In the cool night air

The bistred day has fallen still,
A darkened mead hangs overhead;
The hush within the evening chill,
Chant's now the yore is gone to bed.
A gently breeze steals from the west,
Cool along the shadowed lanes;
The sunburned broil, now at rest,
Its warmth has gone, but still remains.

What Is Happiness

I don’t want to feel this way
Anymore

I yearn
For
Happiness

But
What is happiness
Is it
What I think it is

Or is it
A lie
Made up to give me false hope
Is it romanticized

Is it waking up
And knowing your purpose
Or is it
Waking up
And finding
Your purpose

It doesn’t matter
I’ll never know

And God Looked Down And Smiled

Endless days' relentless bombardment laid the Somme landscape waste;
Shells by the million, a devastating deathly doom-laden din,
Craters filled with rotting bodies, men and horses,
United in indifferent, undifferentiated bestial meaninglessness;
And the helpless soldiers sang and prayed in the company of the dead.
If there were, if there really were, a god in bloody Heaven,
Surely he would have bent a holy ear, opened his holy eyes?
But no, in his wisdom he let it all happen.
Free will, old boy, don't you know?

Staring into empty space, staring above

They say we all breathe deeply the same air.
Are we or are we not the children of the same life?
Somewhere far away, where even snails carry their burden with pride,
a fossil Sun is shining for the dead as well.
If what we can’t see, can’t hear and can’t feel does not exist,
the astral explosions,
the galaxies lost beyond the horizon
and the fever of lovers who are being consumed by nothing at all
don’t exist either.
We all carry our past like tired snails,
by ourselves or in pairs, we hold hands or hold our breath,

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